Dead Wrong

The two men stood there for an electric moment, regarding each other warily, then Frank held out his hand. “Gracias, Senor Trujillo,” he said. “We can’t thank you enough.” It was enough to break the tension, but instead of resuming his seat, Ephrain started back toward his truck.

“It’s getting late,” he said. “I should be going now.”

“Please, Mr. Trujillo,” Joanna said. “There’s one more thing. We need you to show us where all this happened.”

“It’s on Doubtful Canyon Road,” he said. “North of San Simon. I’m sure you’ll be able to find it.”

“But we’ll be able to find it much faster if you show us where it is,” she said. “And the sooner we process the crime scene the better. Other vehicles may drive through the area and disturb tracks. Evidence can blow away in the wind…”

When it had been just the two of them-Ephrain and Joanna-the man had seemed at ease. Now that Frank had been added to the mix, however, Ephrain was outnumbered. Joanna didn’t want to lose him.

“You lead the way in your vehicle,” she said. “Frank and I can follow in ours.”

“So I am not under arrest? I can take my truck?”

“You are not under arrest,” Joanna confirmed. “And yes, you can take your vehicle. My detectives will need to interview you, but once they’ve done that-”

“But I already told you what I saw and what I did.”

“Yes,” Joanna said. “But I’m the sheriff, not a detective. They’re the ones who take the official statements. I’ll have them meet us in San Simon and do it there. That way you won’t have to miss any work.”

“But if there are detectives…” he objected. “What if they…”

“The detectives work for me,” Joanna declared. “And they do what I say. You will not be placed under arrest by them or by me. Once you show us where all this happened and give my investigators an official statement, you will be free to go.”

“What about my two friends?” he asked. “They rode here with me. They have no way to get back to where they are staying.”

“They were there with you?” Joanna asked. “They were the ones who helped you bring Jeannine to the hospital?”

Ephrain nodded.

“It would be helpful to have them go along as well,” Joanna said. “They may have noticed something you didn’t. And, if you’re hungry, we can stop off in Benson and have some food along the way.”

“But you will not turn them over to INS?”

“No, Mr. Trujillo,” she said. “I promise.”

It took a few minutes for Ephrain to find his lurking compatriots. Shortly after that, an odd-looking caravan headed south on Campbell through afternoon-rush-hour traffic, headed for the freeway. The faded red Chevy LUV led the way, followed by the two Crown Victorias. Joanna took the opportunity to grab for her radio. Her lead dispatcher, Larry Kendrick, took the call.

“Time to roust out the troops,” she said. “Dave Hollicker, and the homicide guys, Jaime Carbajal, and Debbie Howell,” she said. “And if you happen to have an extra deputy hanging loose in the northeast sector, you might send him along as well. We’ll meet everyone at the near end of Doubtful Canyon Road in San Simon. Since we don’t know exactly where we’re going, we’ll lead them from there.”

By the time they reached the little Mexican food dive in Benson, Joanna’s flattened bladder was in a world of hurt. She went inside and used the facilities. When she returned from the rest room, Frank was busy ordering food for Ephrain and the others.

“I’m going outside to call Butch,” she told Frank when he finished with the waitress. “I need to let him know that most likely I’ll be late for dinner.”

Frank nodded absently and Joanna hurried outside. But not to telephone-at least, not right away. The first thing she did was open the Crown Victoria’s trunk and take out her Kevlar vest. She finally had to lie down flat on the passenger side of the front seat before she could fasten the damned thing, and once it was on, she could barely breathe. But Ephrain Trujillo’s casual admission that he routinely carried a gun-a telling reminder that lots of people, good and bad people-carried guns, had gotten Joanna’s undivided attention. In opting not to wear the bulky vest-in choosing temporary comfort over safety-she had put both herself and her baby at risk.

What’s the matter with you? she lectured herself. I thought you were all about leading by example.

Feeling like a little kid stuffed into last year’s snowsuit, she managed to stand up. Only then did she call Butch.

“When are you going to have this baby?” he asked.

“I hope it’ll be any day now. Why?”

“Because my parents are driving me crazy,” he said. “Mom saw you on the Noon News. She wanted to know why a sheriff’s office would be in charge of the dogcatchers.”

“So you know about Jeannine Phillips then?” Joanna asked.

“I do,” he said. “Heard about it from Jim Bob. We were supposed to go there for dinner tonight, but he and Eva Lou have spent the whole day filling in at the pound, so he called a little while ago to beg off. We’re going out for pizza instead, much to Jenny’s delight. What about you?”

“We’ve located someone who witnessed part of the attack on Jeannine,” Joanna said. “We’re on our way to the crime scene right now. I don’t know when I’ll be home. Probably not in time for dinner.”

“Right,” he said. “You’re probably hiding out in your office and only pretending to be on your way to a crime scene. I know the real story. You don’t want to have anything to do with my parents. The truth is, neither do I.”

“You’ll just have to buck up,” Joanna said. “They won’t be here forever.”

“Oh, yeah?” Butch returned. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re not stuck here at the house with them. I may call Dr. Lee and ask what it would take to convince him to induce labor.”

“From the way I’m feeling right now,” Joanna said, “that doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.”

When she went back into the restaurant, the two younger men were greedily and silently mowing their way through individual platters of tacos. No doubt they were hungry after a hard day of physical labor, but they ate as though their hunger went deeper than that-as though it had been a long time since they’d been able to eat their fill.

Frank Montoya and Ephrain Trujillo had been speaking in Spanish. When Joanna finally managed to maneuver her bulky self onto a chair at the table, the two men politely switched to English. “Mr. Trujillo tells me that he came here from Nicaragua twenty years ago,” Frank said. “He was granted political asylum.”

Nicaragua. A country, yes, but also a word from the history books. Joanna recalled what had happened earlier, how just talking about the sound of someone being kicked had been enough to cause Ephrain’s tears to flow. No wonder he carried a gun. And knew how to use it. And what about the two young men with him? Where did they come from? What had they seen? Whatever their origins, they trusted Ephrain enough to come here with him, to sit quietly in this restaurant with two police officers and to believe that, whatever was coming, Ephrain Trujillo would see them safely through it.

“Are you all right?” Frank asked.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Why?”

“You look… I don’t know… sort of uncomfortable. I was afraid…”

I am uncomfortable, she wanted to say. I’m wearing this godawful vest and. I can hardly breathe. “I’m fine,” she said.

“Would you like something to eat?” Frank asked.

I couldn’t squeeze in a bite without popping the Velcro, she thought. What she said was “No, thanks. I just had lunch.”

Forty-five minutes later, they pulled into San Simon, where two more sheriff’s department vehicles joined the caravan for the drive out to Doubtful Canyon Road. Half a mile beyond the locked and gated turnoff to Roostercomb Ranch, Ephrain Trujillo stopped the LUV just short of a low rise. He and his friends as well as Joanna’s team of investigators exited their various vehicles and hiked up the hill behind Ephrain. Once at the top, Ephrain stood in the middle of the dirt roadway and pointed to a small, rock-strewn clearing off to one side.

“There,” he said, pointing. “That’s where it happened.”